Then the invoices.
Then Jasper’s signature.
The first night of the trail ended without Jasper answering.
But five days earlier, none of them had known they were riding inside a fraud.
Five days earlier, Henrietta Caldwell had been standing outside the general store in Tascosa with one trunk, six goats, a battered recipe book, and the growing certainty that accepting Amos Jenkins’s job had been a mistake.
She had arrived before sunrise.
By nine o’clock the Texas sun was already punishing.
Her supplies sat in a neat row beneath the store awning.
Flour.
Beans.
Coffee.
Salt.
Lard.
Dried onions.
Rice.
Sugar.
A small crate of canned tomatoes.
Two sacks of dried chilies.
And six goats tethered behind the wagon.
People had been staring for more than an hour.
Henrietta was accustomed to staring.
The mistake people made was assuming familiarity made it painless.
It did not.
The body adjusted to heat, work, hunger, and exhaustion.
It never fully adjusted to being looked at as a public argument.
Some people stared because she was large.
Some because she was a woman standing alone beside a trail wagon.
Most because of both.
Henrietta kept checking supplies.
At nine-thirty a rider crossed the road toward her.
Black hat.
Dusty white shirt.
Dark vest.
Straight posture.
Spurs.
Caleb Lawson dismounted without wasting movement.
“You’re the Caldwell woman.”
Henrietta looked up.
“Hedi.”
His eyes moved briefly across her.
Not crudely.
Not kindly either.
Assessment.
She had seen cattle buyers use the same expression.
“And you’re late loading the wagon,” she added.
One eyebrow rose beneath his hat.
“Trail leaves tomorrow.”
“The flour does not load itself tomorrow.”
Caleb looked toward the supply pile.
Then toward the goats.
His face changed.
“What are those?”
Henrietta looked behind her.
“Goats.”
“I know what goats look like.”
“Then this conversation is moving well.”
He stared at her.
She met it.
“Where’s beef?”
“Ask Mr. Jenkins.”
“I’m asking the cook.”
“Mr. Jenkins allowed thirty dollars for meat.”
Caleb’s expression darkened.
“That won’t feed twelve men two months.”
“I noticed.”
“So you bought goats?”
“Yes.”
“Trail crew doesn’t eat goat.”
Henrietta turned back to the flour sack.
“Then trail crew can eat the dust around it.”
Caleb actually laughed.
Not warmly.
“You’re serious.”
“Painfully.”
He stepped toward the goats.
“These men are Texas drovers.”
“They’ll string you from the wagon tongue if you serve that.”
Henrietta folded both arms.
“A good cook doesn’t blame ingredients.”
Caleb looked at her body again.
This time she saw the judgment more clearly.
He did not say fat.
He did not need to.
“Two months on the trail isn’t a kitchen job in town.”
“I’m aware.”
“Wagon will beat you.”
“I have ridden wagons.”
“You’ll be moving before daylight.”
“I understand daylight.”
He exhaled.
Henrietta’s face cooled.
“Say it.”
Caleb frowned.
“What?”
“The rest of what you are thinking.”
“That is usually dangerous.”
“I dislike unfinished insults.”
His jaw tightened.
“This trail is hard on strong men.”
“And?”
“You’re not built for it.”